He Told Me To
by Nightsmoke
Summary: A Barbados woman meets with a man in black one night and writes in his book. Historical AU.


All characters © Toboso Yana

_Summary: _a Barbados slave meets with a strange individual in the forest at night, and she makes a contract. Historical AU. Mentions of the Vikings, the potato famine, and the Bermuda Triangle.

* * *

_**He Told Me To**_

William T. Spears fancied thinking himself as a highly reserved individual, an inexorable hard-worker, and his constant strive to achieve a debonair and proprietary mien only furthered his slow sink into the epitome of the image itself. He got his paperwork in before the deadlines. He did overtime (reluctantly, at first) and filed in all of the reports for new Dispatch rookies. His tie was always straight, spectacles never smeared, and his suit was never anything but crisply ironed. Today, many in the Personnel Department mistake him for dry, emotionless, or even irascible at times, but for William T. Spears, that is merely a way of life.

William T. Spears, however, hadn't always been as obsequious to the Main Branch as he is today.

True, the new generation of Dispatch members were youthful and unique, but genuine unconventionality was the reason why the Old World shinigami were so respected. William knew this, and knew that you only gained respect in the underworld by stepping out of the lines.

It was common knowledge that the demon Sebastian Michaelis had started the Black Death. William personally knew a shinigami who had spread an Oomyete all over Ireland, causing a shortage of potatoes. One of the oldest shinigami, now residing in London as a local Undertaker, had become famous for convincing the Vikings to raid Lindisfarne in the late eighth century, thus commencing the Viking Age in human history.

Breaking the rules and reaping souls not on the soul collection list was considered fashionable in the day, and if you were a rookie with nothing better to do, it was the higher-ups who got blamed for your actions, not you. They had to cover for your ass while you strolled free, and unless any of the souls you had reaped were "beneficial to the world," the Main Branch was pretty much okay with things.

William was aware that with respect came satisfaction, and with aberration came respect. William T. Spears, though some may not dare to believe it, had become known for more than his corn-yellow eyes and glasses that lacked silicon nose pads. Those who worked with him saw an obedient teacher's pet, but if they cared to look some more they would also witness a cool individual interested in only his own abilities; an individual who would accomplish a deed at any cost.

So it was reasons thus that William T. Spears visited America at the end of the seventeenth century. He had been young then, barely out of rookie-hood himself, and although he is proud of his shinigami juvenilia, William likes to think his standards have risen since then.

* * *

William pushed up his glasses, skimming through the large tome in his hands. In reality it was just his book of Dispatch rules and regulations, but it didn't make much of a difference since the woman before him couldn't read a word of text. He made an act of scanning over a random page (which bore the title _"Shinigami and Myopia"_), running a black-gloved finger down the spine. "Tituba, Tituba..." he muttered, his finger coming to rest in the middle of the page. "Ah, there we are."

He turned to the dark woman, smoothing down the front of his suit. Despite the sub-zero temperatures of a Massachusetts February, there was no steam from his breath. "I have you down for tonight," he informed her, seeing her eyes widen, "but we can change that, if you want to live for a little bit longer."

She nodded frantically, which was understandable. No one wanted to die. With another push of his glasses, William flipped to another page in his book which read _"Notable Shinigami of the Personnel Department, Branch 14A"._

"I can give you six years." He saw her look turn hopeful, and he tilted his scythe so that it was visible. Its sharp serration, a thousand times more deadly that a quill's tip, glinted in the light of the moon through the trees of the forest.

"But I require something in return, Tituba. You can write your name, yes?" Another nod.

William pointed to a passage in his book (_"...Shinigami with vision whose denominator exceeds 20/400 should not be allowed to operate oversized weaponry..."_). "If you sign right here, I will extend your life. In turn, you will have to work for me," he said. "Fretting is unnecessary. I will not require much." And he explained to her what he wanted her to do.

"This land is not yours," he added, when doubt flashed in the woman's eyes. "You have your own home, where things are different than they are here. And these humans," he gestured to the sleeping village around him, "are so fettered by their religious beliefs that they'll surely believe anything you tell them. Because you are from outside."

She asked him then what he was, because humans didn't call other people "humans," nor did they wear strange black clothes in the dead of winter. William gave her an honest answer. He told her he was a god, knowing full well that the Puritans would associate him with Satan before even thinking of shinigami.

After some more convincing talk the woman finally agreed to his fabricated deal, and William held out his scythe. "Better for you to sign in blood," he remarked casually, bringing the sharp end of the clipper to her finger. "It's just a prick, and it's more authentic that way."

"What happens if I get caught?" she asked, looking into his strange yellow eyes and white, white skin.

"Then you tell them everything," William replied tiredly.

She held out her hand and did the deed. As the wind rustled through the trees William smiled grimly, snapped shut his book, and disappeared, leaving the woman alone in the devil's forest with her hand in the air and her breath coming out in a fog.

* * *

It was best to ease into it slowly, to plant the nefarious seed of fear and watch it grow into a stifling weed. It was also best to target young girls, since they were the most easily frightened, like cornered mice. They couldn't see him, but he was there, blowing in their ears, giving quick pinches, and gently bending their arms.

The weeds spread, and the nooses tightened. The Salem Witch Trials made the history books; the General Affairs Department was pleased. William got his souls, and the overtime was worth it.

Those today would note that William's past is painfully at odds with his—what a red-haired Dispatch rookie in his firm calls— "goody two-shoes" mindset, which isn't really as goody two-shoes as one would think. Said red-haired rookie, whose face William has smashed in more than once, can account for that.

These days William doesn't do much "attention-grabber" reaping anymore. There are plenty of warmongering rookies to gladly carry out that kind of work, what with their ostentatious, illegally-modified scythes and piercings and lack of proper etiquette. Take Grell Sutcliffe for example, who earned himself the nickname Jack the Ripper back in the Main Branch for helping murder a bunch of ladybirds. And he wasn't even _supposed _to be in the London Division. Or take Ronald Knox, for that matter, who William knows has been reaping in the Bahamas lately, preying on ships such as the _Rosalie, Mary Celeste,_ and the _Ellen Austin._

He was once like that, but William likes to think that he's above such things now, having done his part. Sybaritic cunningness and manipulation, he has realized, seems too much like demon work. It isn't his style.


End file.
